The Ghost of You
by Lamia Astaroth
Summary: [Ch. 2 Up] Sequel to "Why Don't You Love Me" Things begin to happen. Is it simply paranoia, or is it for real? Read and Review!
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer-I own nothing. The show belongs to its creators.

Author's Note-This is the sequel to my other Queer as Folk story, "Why Don't You Love Me?" In other words, I would suggest…well, recommend that you read that story first, because, frankly, you will have no idea what's happening in _this_ story unless you do.

Okay, with that being said, read, _please_ review, and enjoy!

* * *

The Ghost of You

By: Lamia Astaroth

* * *

You can't trust someone  
who thinks you're crazy.  
-Chole Sava: _Gothika_

Friends come in and out of your  
life like busboys in a restaurant,  
did you ever notice that?  
-Stephen King: Stand By Me

At the end of the world or the  
last thing I see. You are never  
coming home, never coming  
home. Could I, should I? And  
all the things that you never ever  
told me, and all the smiles that  
are ever gonna haunt me  
-My Chemical Romance "The Ghost of You"

Much madness is divinest sense  
To a discerning eye;  
Much sense the starkest madness.  
'T is the majority  
In this, as all, prevails.  
Assent, and you are sane;  
Demur,—you 're straightway dangerous,  
And handled with a chain.  
-Emily Dickinson: "Much madness is divinest sense"

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

He's gone. Dead. I can't believe it. It happened so suddenly; I mean, he had seemed so happy, too. He had finally gotten together with the love of his life and now...gone. And it seems like I'm the only one who cares. After all, his whole family is dead, and I was his only friend (as far as I know, at least).

I just don't understand it. He was such a wonderful, sweet boy. He had been there when no one else believed that I was innocent. When I had wanted so, _so_ much to die, he had been there for me. Sure, he had a tendency to get too...attached to things, but everyone has flaws. It was no big deal, really. It's no worse then, say, those necrophiliacs. I've actually met one of those, though. He was a nice guy, strangely enough.

I got the news yesterday. Well, I _found out_ the news yesterday. I don't think I would have ever figured it out if I hadn't checked for myself. I would still be lying in my room, happy. Thinking that he was happy, that he was in love...and loved.

A week had gone by that I hadn't heard from him. I had passed it off as "Oh, he's just preoccupied with his new lover." I only wish that had been the case. But then he wouldn't return my e-mails, and that's just not at all like him. I checked the obituaries for his city for the past two weeks and...there he was. There was even a picture of him. He looked so far away, with that lonely, lost look in his eye.

I remember what the obituary said, word for word. _"Glenn Rosenthal,"_ it had said._ "March 7, 1981 - May 15, 2004 . Born in Los Angeles, CA. Died in Pittsburgh, PA; cause unknown."_

"Cause unknown." Ha, what a pile of horse shit. They want to know the reason? Well, what don't they just give me a call and I'll tell them the goddamn reason. It was because he lost the love of his life, Michael Novotny - it's amazing that I know his full name; Glenn mentioned him _that_ much. I know that he lost him, because a month prior, a Michael Novotny was found after being "kidnapped" and Glenn was sent to some fucking nut house. Like me. _Just_ like me.

But that just shows you how oblivious the press is to everything. First off, Glenn is _not_ a kidnapper. He's a sweet, caring boy who just wanted to be with the one he loved. That's not a crime. Besides, I didn't hear anything about Michael Novotny trying to escape. Kidnapping is _forcing_ someone to stay with you. Whether or not they choose to stay is their own free will. And Michael Novotny chose. He _chose_ to be with Glenn. But I guess he just...changed his mind.

Second of all, Glenn didn't need to go to some insane asylum. He was _not_ that bad. Sure, he had his moments. But if we all went to a mental house every time we overreacted, then the whole human race would be surrounded by white padded walls.

I cried for so long after I found out. Not because I had lost a friend - a close friend - but because of _why_ he had died. It was not some "unknown" reason, nor was it suicide (another one of the doctors' ingenious conclusions). It was murder. Glenn was _murdered._ And the killer was let go and _pitied_ for what had happened. Just thinking about it absolutely kills me.

Michael Novotny killed Glenn Rosenthal.

I want everyone to know. I want them to know that Glenn was not the one who performed a crime. I want them to know that it was the proclaimed "victim." That Michael Novotny murdered Glenn when he left him. After he had chosen to stay, Michael Novotny decided that he did not want to be there, and just...left (well, with the help of the police), leaving Glenn sad and alone inside a cold, dark room. Probably one very similar to the one I'm sitting in right now.

I've tried to tell people. I'm trying so, _so_ hard to tell people that Glenn was innocent, but they don't listen. They either drug me or tell me to calm down; the last time I tried to tell someone, I ended up bursting into tears and tearing huge holes into the shoulders of my clothes.

My psychiatrist keeps asking me, "Who's Michael Novotny?" and every time I say the same thing: "He's a murderer. A goddamn _killer_...and he got away. He _got away_ and no one cares. No one believes." I don't think that's ever good enough for my doctor, because he always gives me the same disapproving look whenever I say it.

But what the fuck does he want me to say? Apparently it's not the truth he wants. Maybe next time I'll throw in "The murderer of my best friend" and he'll get more interested. God, what an asshole. If this place wasn't so heavily guarded, I swear, I'd put a bullet through the guy's head without a second thought. But I digress.

My roommate, Tori, is the only one who listens to what I have to say. Not that she has a choice in the matter; she never says too much. But she will nod or shake her head at times. So I know she's listening to me. And that she agrees that Michael Novotny is guilty and Glenn is innocent. But she's insane. A fucking loony. She probably has no goddamn idea what I'm saying.

I turn over on my bed and bury my face in the off-white pillow. I can't look at the ceiling anymore - it's making me angry; it thinks Glenn was guilty, too. Just like everyone else. Except Tori, but like I said, she's probably has no idea where the hell she is, much less whether my friend is innocent or guilty.

I sigh into the pillow, feeling a slight wetness forming around my eyes. I'm crying again. Why do I always cry when I think about this? I sniff, wiping my nose on the pillow. Why'd he have to leave? He should have just come to Los Angeles and lived in my old apartment like we planned. But, _no_; he had to listen to Michael Novotny. And now he's dead...and Michael Novotny is still alive.

Life is so unfair. But Glenn knew that. Hell, he knew that more than anyone. He lost his whole family, and now...the guy he loved killed him. And without a just reason, even. I can only imagine what his last thoughts were. After all, it's not every day someone is considered to have died from a broken heart, right?

There had always been a sense of pity in our relationship. I think even _he_ knew that. I mean, who could blame me? After all of the shit he had been through, anyone would pity him. Hell, I'd bet even that asshole Michael Novotny pitied him...even just a little.

But all of that changed after the David incident; after I was diagnosed with depression, bipolar disorder, and anything and everything else the doctors felt that they could throw in there. Whatever it took to get me into a mental hospital, in other words.

The pity between us had flip-flopped completely after that moment. Because I was now officially crazy. And compared to that, a shitty past has nothing to compete with, I guess. But even in spite of me "going insane," he had been there for me. He always had been.

I turn my face toward the wall. I don't want Tori to see me crying. She apparently thinks that I'm some kind of badass, and I don't want to lose that reputation. She respects me more...and she likes me that way. After all, even in spite of being a complete whack job, she's still a sweetheart to the core.

I'll never forget the most sane (and beautiful) thing she ever said to me. It had been, "Don't worry; you were a great friend to him. He'll never, ever forget that."

At the time, it had nearly moved me to tears. Because I had obviously _not_ been a good friend. If I had been, why was he dead? And why had it taken me so long to find out? And why, _why_ had he had to die all alone? Yeah, I'm a great friend.

She had followed that kind statement with something I didn't understand. I still don't, now that I think about it. "Help you," she had said. Help me what, though? The best assumption I've got is that she said those things to me to "help me" feel better. But the way she had said it...it makes me think my assumption's wrong.

Then again, like I've said time and time again, she's a loony. Why else would she be _here_, for God's sake?

A hand touches my shoulder. I look over at the face the hand belongs to. Tori is looking at me. The dark circles beneath her eyes look even more vivid in this lighting. "...okay?" she whispers, so delicately that I am only able to catch the last word of her sentence.

I sniff loudly, hoping that she can't see the tears in my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I reply, obviously lying through my teeth. Even a girl like her can see how not fine I really am.

As I predicted, she shakes her head. "No. It's...it's...Gl-Glenn. Right?" Her eyes are wide with curiosity and it takes all my energy to not jump up and embrace her with all my soul. "You...miss him." She adds something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, _"Michael."_

I nod, not wanting to lie to her. After all, she can't be older than sixteen years old. So naive, yet so sweet. "Yes, it's Glenn," I reply, turning on my opposite side to face her.

"It'll...it'll be okay," she says, her wide gray eyes piercing into my soul.

"How do you know?" I blurt out as more tears fill my eyes.

Gently, she places her small hand on top of mine. Her fingernails are bitten down terribly and her cuticles are red and puffy, some etched with dried blood. She bites her nails a lot; I watch her during group therapy. "I...know," she says. "I just...know."

I know it's not much of an answer, but for some reason, it warms me. Without even realizing that I'm doing it, I reach my arms out toward her. She smiles in understanding, reaching down and hugging me. She's so small and frail that I'm afraid to hug her too tightly. I'm afraid I might break her and, to be quite honest, I need a friend right now.

"Trust me," she whispers into my ear and a chill is sent up my spine, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. She pulls away and looks at me. Her dishwater blond hair is greasy from a lack of bathing and the way it is plastered to her skull seems to make her large eyes stand out even more.

Our eyes are locked for some time - I lost track of how long - and, for a moment, I think I understand what she means. She pulls away, however, and I lose it. Whatever she was trying to tell me, I can't remember what it was.

Shelies down on her bed, pulling the thin white sheets over her narrow body. "...you," she whispers. I would ask her what she had said, but I'm suddenly too exhausted to do so.

She's right, though. It'll be okay. I know it will. Like Tori said, I just...know.

* * *

_A scream. Hands grabbing. The smell of sweat fills the air. A gun skitters across the floor, and then is gone. Footsteps. A door creaks open...and then slams shut. Another scream. It echoes, and then disappears. Tears fall onto the floor. A hand appears; the fingers are curled into a tight fist. The fist flies closer, then strikes. Blood flicks into the air. Someone crying softly. An apology, soft and confused. A cough. The telephone rings. A dial tone._

_Someone is watching. Someone is _always_ watching -_

"Wha -" Michael jerked as he awoke, breathing heavily. "Oh...fuck," he whispered, sweeping a hand across his brow. He wiped away the sweat that was dripping down his hairline to his forehead. He swallowed. A knot had formed in his chest and his heart was racing. _What a dream,_ he thought, closing his eyes as he returned his hand to back down by his side.

"Michael?" Ben reached his hand across in the darkness and gently brushed the bare shoulder of his partner. Only recently the two of them had been able to make love again. And, to Ben, it seemed that Michael was still rather uneasy about doing it. "You okay?"

Michael's accelerated breathing filled the room; the sound nothing more than an ongoing panting. "I just had a...a dream," he whispered. "I'm okay, I think."

"Was it about...?" Ben trailed off, knowing that he did not need to finish his question. Which was convenient, seeing as he did not wish to.

"Yeah," Michael said, turning onto his side and curling up tightly next to Ben. Ben, in return, shifted his arm and wrapped it around Michael's small torso, pulling him closer. "When is it going to stop?" Michael asked softly. "When is he going to...go away?"

Ben sighed, inhaling the scent of Michael's dark hair. "I don't know, baby," he said. He let his eyes slide half-closed as he gently rubbed Michael's back, just behind the shoulder blades. "But they will. They haven't been as bad as they used to be. It'll just take time to...to get past it."

"But what if I never do?" Michael asked. "I mean...it's been over two months, and it's only gotten a little hazy; not even close to what it should be."

"Think of it this way," Ben began, closing his eyes, "at least it's beginning to fade. I would only be really worried if it hadn't hazed over at all. It should get better soon. It's just going to take a while."

"You're probably right, but I can't stand having to wait for myself to...to stop being afraid. It's bullshit; it really is! He's been dead and gone for over a week now, but I feel like I can still...sense him." He paused, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I talk about this every goddamn night, when you should be sleeping, getting rest for work tomorrow." He trailed off, closing his eyes and burying himself into the safety of Ben's arms.

Ben sighed, holding Michael close against him. His eyes stared at the ceiling above him, wide with trepidation. In the past few weeks, Michael had gone from slightly better to slightly worse, to right back where he had been when he and Ben had been reunited at the hospital.

Ben was worried, to be frank. Earlier that day, he had received a call from Michael's therapist – ironically, the same man who had been Glenn's therapist; it was Michael's way of "paying back" the doctor for helping find him.

Dr. Carmon had said that he was concerned about Michael's "lack of progress" and was considering putting him on some type of temporary medication. Ben had not yet informed Michael about that just yet; he was waiting for the right moment. And after the near panic attack Michael had just had, Ben planned on telling him the next morning.

Ben glanced down at the form in his arms, happy to see that Michael had fallen asleep again. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the gentle beating of Michael's heart to help him fall to sleep.

_He seems to be sleeping all right_, Ben thought after a few moments. _Maybe medication isn't necessary for this. After all, this is something he needs to move past on his own. Not with the help of some placebo, or whatever Dr. Carmon has in mind._

He smiled softly to himself, glad that he no longer had to worry about telling Michael about his phone call with Dr. Carmon. He had been trying to think of a way to tell him without the risk of upsetting him all day.

As Ben's body relaxed, his embrace around Michael relaxed as well. One arm rested loosely across Michael's shoulders, the other fell back down to the cool sheets of the bed. He relaxed even more, drifting further away from awareness and closer to sleep.

Just as he was a hand's reach away from falling into a deep state of sleep, Ben opened his eyes. Something had changed. Michael was not moving, but something was...wrong. Ben's eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on what had awoken him. After a moment of silence, he knew.

Michael's heart rate had sped up; Ben could feel it beating posthaste against his own chest. Out of pure reflex, his arms wrapped around Michael's small body in a desperate attempt to calm him before it got any worse.

"Shh, baby, it's all right," Ben whispered, praying that Michael's subconscious would hear his voice. "It's okay."

Suddenly, almost unexpectedly, Michael's heart rate slowed, then returned to normal. Sweat had popped up along his brow, however, Ben noticed.

Ben exhaled deeply, shifting slightly in the bed. Maybe Dr. Carmon had been right. Maybe medication, placebo or no, was the route to go. After all, it had been over five weeks, and Michael's progression seemed to have done nothing more then backtrack. All Ben wanted for his lover was for everything to return to almost-normal and, mainly, for Michael to move on.

But he was still blaming himself for Glenn's death, Ben could see, and that meant that moving on was going to be damn near impossible. _That's the one thing I hate about that Dr. Carmon,_ Ben thought. _He had to go and say that he was positive that that Glenn died of a broken heart. That's what really fueled Michael's guilt. Before that, he had been getting better. And then that article..._

He closed his eyes, cutting off his trail of thoughts. _No,_ he thought, _I'm not going to think about that now. Michael's right; I've got to get some sleep before tomorrow. _

It was that thought that gave Ben the initiative to relax again, and, eventually, the push he needed to cross that line from awake to repose.

And as they slept, a girl across the country lay awake in the darkness of her room, smiling with her eyes closed, whispering, "I know. I just...know."

_To Be Continued..._


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer-I own nothing. The show belongs to its creators.

Author's Note-Many thanks to my reviewers, "FW" and Eresteizulim, and also to justxjack, who reviewed on my LiveJournal. Thanks to you all! Don't forget to review this time, too.

* * *

The Ghost of You

By: Lamia Astaroth

* * *

Deep into that darkness  
peering, long I stood there  
wondering, fearing, doubting,  
dreaming dreams no mortal  
ever dared to dream before  
-Edgar Allan Poe: "The Raven" (15-16)

He who fears something  
gives it power over him.  
-Moorish proverb

I close my eyes when I get too sad  
I think thoughts that I know are bad  
Close my eyes and I count to ten  
Hope it's over when I open them.  
-Everclear "Wonderful"

I want it all to go away, I  
want to be alone. Sympathy's  
wasted on my hollow shell. I  
feel there's nothing left to fight  
for, no reasonfor a cause.  
-Sarah McLaughlin "Lost"

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

"I've already told you who he is. I've told you every fucking time I've come in here." I cross my ankles and stretch out on the red velvet couch.

"Don't use that kind of language, Carol," Dr. Schniderman warns me, tapping the tip of his pen loudly on his notepad. "And I'm not asking you _who_ Michael Novotny is; I'm asking you _what_ he has to do with why you've been so upset lately. I know that the passing of your friend has been hard on you -"

"Passing?" I repeat, spitting the word back at him. "It wasn't a 'passing'; it was murder. I know it was."

"And how do you know that?" he asks gently, as though I'm some three year old. I roll my eyes and carelessly push a stray red hair out of my face and tuck it behind my ear. They cut my hair short right after I found out about Glenn's death - excuse me - murder. Apparently, people aren't allowed to pull at their hair after they've found out their best friend has died. "Carol? How do you know that it was murder?" he asks again, sounding impatient.

"Because he just _happened_ to die right after the love of his life - Michael Novotny - left him. Just up and left him. He was all Glenn wanted, and he even showed compassion for Glenn; he and Glenn had _sex_, for God's sake. And then he just...left him. And Glenn couldn't go on without his love, so...he died." Tears form in the corners of my eyes, but I pull them back inside before they have the chance to fall.

"I see," Dr. Schniderman says, showing some compassion for the first time since I've met with him. He places his hand on my shoulder and says, softly, "You'll be fine. You know that, right?"

Oh, Doc, do I ever. I _know _I'll be fine. "Yes," I reply, nodding for emphasis. "I know."

He glances quickly at his watch. "I'll let you go five minutes early." He stands, and I follow suit, swinging my legs over the side of the couch and standing up as well. "Oh, before you leave," he adds as I begin to approach the door, "I meant to ask you: how's your new roommate doing?"

I pause, then smile. "She's fine," I say. "A lot better than Diane." That poor girl, Diane. She just couldn't get herself to eat. From what I've heard, she's been moved to a regular hospital; she's on a feeding tube now, apparently. I've been wondering about her lately; how she's doing.

"I like her," I add, and I don't know why I feel the need to say it. But I _do_ like Tori. There's something about her that I just can't quite...figure out. But, whatever it is, I like it.

"That's good," he says with a smile. "I hope things move forward for you. You've been here too long. You need to get out and see the world."

Trust me, if I were to get out of here _now_, I'd make one stop, and then end up back in one of these places. Or in jail. Whichever. "Thanks, Dr. Schniderman," I say. I open up the door and leave his office, closing the door softly behind me.

A nurse is there waiting for me, a plastic smile slapped across her face. "Ready, Carol?" she asks. Her voice is overly-sweet and monotonous; a terrible combination. Without waiting for my response, she turns and begins walking down the hallway. She pauses after noticing that I'm not following, and beckons for me.

Well, what choice do I have, really? I follow her soundlessly, staring at her feet as we walk down the hall. We are halfway to my room when I remember something that I wanted to ask Dr. Schniderman. I wanted to know why Tori had to come here. I hadn't really asked her; she seems so mysterious about it. But I'm sure she'd tell me if I asked.

"Here we are," the nurse says, as though we've just arrived at the happiest place on Earth, instead of a small, two bed room surrounded by white walls. She unlocks the door and allows me to step inside. As soon as my whole body is inside the room, the door slams shut and locks. I think she's afraid of us. Stupid, ignorant bitch.

Tori is lying on her bed, staring at her hands. She's picking at a hangnail on her index finger of her left hand. Her fingernails, I notice, are chewed down almost to the bone - a mess of peeled skin and dried blood.

"Hi," I say, and she looks casually over at me, then returns her gaze to her hands. "What's up?" I ask, sitting down at the foot of her bed.

She shakes her head. It's her way of saying, "Nothing's happening; isn't that obvious?" She sighs, then looks at me. "How...was...was it?" she asks. Her voice is soft and murmuring; I've learned that, if she talks, you have to _really_ listen.

"Ehh, it was okay," I reply. "But all he wants to talk about is Glenn this and Michael Novotny that. I mean, he's trying to help me move on, but he's just making it worse, you know?"

"It...be...o-okay," she says, breathing in a breath that hitches slightly, and then releases.

"That's what _he_ said, and I think you're both right. I just...don't know when, exactly. But I know it'll happen." I nod, smiling sadly. "Oh," I say, and we both look up at each other in unison. "I was wondering, why exactly are you here? I mean, why'd they decide to put you here?"

Tori frowns, tugging at the sleeve of her long-sleeved, white shirt. "I...was...picked on. By this...this guy. He said that...that people should...should stay away from...from me, because I would...somehow...kill them. My parents...they died when I was...was one. Then my aunt who...who raised me after...she died when I was...was thirteen. Then...when I was fifteen...my uncle...he died, too. So, people think that I'm...a plague."

She pauses, steadying her breath in an attempt to calm herself. "So I...I got...depressed. And angry. I did...things...to him...and me." She lifts up a sleeve and shows me the faded scars on her arm. "He said that...that I was crazy, so he...he told on me to a...a teacher. That's why...I'm here."

"I'm sorry," I say, softly. "The same kind of thing happened to me. Well, sort of. There was this guy, David. I really, really liked him, but he just...didn't like me back. But I still _really_ loved him, so I would follow him around and...watch him. He got a restraining order and I tried to kill myself. That's _my_ reason."

I look over at her and realize that I probably would've been better off not saying anything at all. She is leaning her back against the wall, staring at the opposite side of the room. I've learned not to talk to her when she does that. It's like she's in some kind of a trance whenever she stares like that.

I slump down onto my bed, watching her. I wonder what she's thinking about when she stares like that. She looks so concentrated and, if you look at the right second, you may even see her smile.

She left lunch early today. I probably should've, too. I was exhausted from crying last night and she's…always tired, it seems. But, instead of going back to the room, I just _had_ to go and do something else. I almost regret it, now, but I'm sure that it'll be worth it, eventually. At least I'll be a better person for having done it.

I watch her for another few seconds and I see it - that quick, simple smile that makes me _really_ wonder what she's thinking about. I tear my eyes away from her then and collapse on my back on the bed, not even having the energy to swing my legs onto the mattress.

And before I close my eyes, I see her smile again. But this time it doesn't fade away. It lingers on her face, causing her eyes to shine with a brilliantness that reminds me of myself. And reminds me of what I did.

Like I said, I like this girl.

* * *

As Michael thumbed through a comic book - not for the life of him knowing why he was doing so - his leg shook nervously underneath him, quaking the comic book and causing his hands to tremble as well. He tossed the comic book onto the countertop next to the register and stood up.

It had taken him all morning to convince Ben that he was able to go into work and already he regretted his decision. Maybe it was because it was way too quiet in the shop. No one had stopped by yet; maybe all he needed was a customer - someone to keep his mind preoccupied. But a customer had yet to come.

_Then again, I've only been here about fifteen minutes, at the most_, he thought, with a quick glance at his watch. _Sixteen, to be exact. _He sighed in aggravation, sitting down at his seat at the counter again.

_I shouldn't have come back to work,_ he thought, placing his elbows on the counter and holding his head in his hands. _This was a really shitty idea. Besides, Justin said he was willing to watch the shop for as long as I needed…_

A bell rang. Michael jerked his head up and looked at the entrance. A young man was now inside the store with him - in his early twenties, Michael guessed, with blond hair and...

_And sad, empty green eyes. And he's tall and pale and he wants to...to..._

Michael snapped off his trail of thoughts, sitting upright in his seat. As the man browsed the stacks of comics, Michael took a closer look at him. The man was blond, yes, but his eyes were a deep, deep brown, and he couldn't have been any taller than Michael was.

_Oh my God, I'm hallucinating,_ Michael thought, swallowing nervously. He could feel patches of cool sweat forming at the base of his hairline. _But it really looked like_ him_ for a second there. I mean, it _really_ did -_

"Excuse me?" Michael blinked at the sound of a voice and, slowly, the man's face appeared in front of him.

"Oh," Michael said, clearing his throat. "Sorry. How can I help you?" He was impressed with how calm and normal he sounded, even to a stranger; one who he had nearly assumed was the man who had held him captive, no less.

"Yeah, I'd like to buy this and this." He placed two comic books on top of the countertop and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, black leather wallet.

"All right, then," Michael said, quickly typing the prices into the register. "Your total is...six dollars and eighty nine cents." The man nodded, then pulled a ten dollar bill out from his wallet. "Outta' ten," Michael mumbled under his breath, as sales' clerks usually do. He handed the man the two comics and, on top of the thin booklets, three one dollar bills, a dime, and a penny. "There you go. Have a good day."

"Thanks, you, too," the man said, taking his purchases and his change and leaving the store. Michael stared at the door after the man had left.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked himself, slouching over in his seat. "I sounded so _normal_ talking to that guy, but I felt so _scared_; like he was suddenly going to pull out a gun and tell me to get the hell back in that apartment..."

His voice trailed off and he chuckled nervously. It was a dry, empty sound; nothing more than a release of emotion. "I'm seriously fucked up," he chuckled to himself, slowly shaking his head. "God, what the hell am I going to do...?"

"Well, obviously you're not going to _work_." Michael's head shot up at the sound of a new voice. Brian was standing in front of him, leaning against the counter.

"Holy shit, Brian," Michael said, clutching at his chest. "When'd you get in here?"

"Umm, about seven seconds ago," Brian said, as though it were the most blatantly obvious thing. "Didn't you hear the bell?"

Michael shook his head. "No, if I _had_, don't you think I would've noticed that you were here?"

Brian shrugged his shoulders. "You never know. Especially with you."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Michael asked curtly, crossing his arms securely over his chest. But he knew exactly what Brian meant. And he had to agree with what Brian was implying.

"C'mon, Mikey," Brian said, rolling his eyes. "You know that you'll sometimes just put up a brave front to make everyone else feel better. In fact, it's kind of what you're known for." He placed each of his hands on the counter and leaned against them, lowering his face closer to Michael's. "But just so you know," he said softly, almost clandestinely, "no one believes that you're fine."

Michael drew back slightly, staring up at Brian with his large brown eyes. "And why would you be?" Brian continued, shrugging a shoulder. "After the shit you went through, it'd take a goddamn miracle to make _anyone_ feel better –"

"But it's been over a month," Michael interrupted, reaching up and clutching anxiously at his head. "Over a month and I feel like he's…still here. Still watching me. And I can't…I can't get rid of it. That guy who was just in here," he said, gesturing toward the door, "I thought that it was _him_, and I almost had a heart attack. I just…don't want to live like this anymore, Brian. I just want it all to…to stop." He pressed a balled-up fist against the corner of his eye, breathing in a heaving breath. "I need it to stop," he added in a rushed whisper.

"Mikey," Brian said gently, reaching his hand forward and rubbing Michael's shoulder benignly. "Don't worry about it. You're obsessing over it; that's the problem. It'll stop if you just –"

"No! Don't you get it? I'm going to be like this forever. I'll never be able to work or go to Babylon or spend time with you and my friends and…" Tears oozed out of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away angrily, sniffing. "And it's all because of _him_. That fucking psycho…it's all because of…of _him_."

More tears seeped out of his eyes and, as he wiped his nose on the back of his hand, he hung his head. The tears glided down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth. The taste of salt and misery filled his mouth and he inhaled shakily.

Michael felt the warmth of two arms wrapping tightly around him, followed by the pressure of two soft lips pressing against the side of his head. He leaned into the touch, embracing Brian tightly. Wetness soaked into Brian's shirt, going unnoticed by the two.

"I just," Michael choked out, "I just don't want to live like this. It's so _hard_ and I can't deal with it. I want him to go away. I want…" He shook his head, inhaling Brian's scent deeply. "I want it to all go away."

Brian placed a light kiss on Michael's forehead. "I know," he said, resting his chin on the top of Michael's head. He rubbed small circles onto Michael's back. "I know you do." He pulled back slightly so that he could look into Michael's eyes, which were brimmed and outlined in moisture. "But until it does, just _let_ Justin work here, for fuck's sake. The kid's willing to, so you might as well take advantage of him. I know I do."

Michael laughed quietly, shaking his head. "I'll bet," he said, looking up at Brian gratefully. "And I think I will. I can't work here alone. Not yet, I mean."

"Thank God, you're at least being reasonable again," Brian said sarcastically. He pulled out of the hug and walked around to the opposite side of the counter again. He resumed his position – hands atop the counter, leaning over toward Michael – and added, "I'll get Justin now. Just turn the sign to 'Closed' and get the fuck back home."

"Thanks, Brian," Michael said with a small smile. "I'm glad I have you," he added, grinning a smartass grin.

Brian however did not return the smile. "Don't do that, Mikey," he warned him, his face unmoving, his expression serious.

"Don't do what?" Michael asked, sounding confused.

"Try to convince me that you're not hurting."

Michael frowned, swallowing a lump in his throat. "I…guess I can't help it," he said, staring down at the countertop. "I just want everyone to not spend all their time worrying about me –"

Brian scoffed. "They're going to, anyway. You might as well act the way you really feel around them. Shit, your mother worried about you even before it happened. There's no way in hell you're ever going to change _that_."

"I guess –"

"Look, I've gotta' go. Just do what I said: get the fuck back home, wait for your Professor, and when he gets home, ask him for a blow job."

Michael chuckled. "Thanks, Brian. You're a big help."

"Just go home," Brian said, giving him a half-grin. He turned from the counter and walked out of the store.

Michael sat in the store a few seconds after Brian's departure, trying to calm himself down after his earlier breakdown. When he finally felt imperturbable, he stood up from his seat and walked over to the front door. With a calm and steady hand, he flipped the sign in the window from "Open" to "Closed," and then stepped outside.

He fumbled in his pocket for a moment as he searched for his key. Finally, he felt the smooth metal and pulled it out. As he locked the door to his store, he felt something push against his shoulder, fingers grabbing into his shoulder and pulling him back…

His heart skipped a beat and he spun around. His eyes settled on an older woman who had just passed by him. She looked at him in perturbation, an eyebrow raised at him. "Sorry," she said, continuing down the sidewalk without so much as another look back.

Michael stared after the woman, his fingers clutching the key so tightly he could almost feel the ridges piercing into his skin, not quite tearing through but enough to make it sore.

_I need to get home_, he thought as he stuck the key back into his pocket. He could feel his heart practically bursting through his chest and added in his mind, _Now._

Michael turned from the comic book store and walked down the sidewalk, going the way the woman who had bumped into him had come from. _Just think about getting home,_ he told himself. _Just that; nothing else._

With every person he passed, Michael felt as though they were _looking_ at him. That they were _seeing_ him. That they were _watching_ him. _Just get home_, he told himself. _Just get home and you'll be okay._

He chanted the phrase over and over in his mind, telling himself that he would just get home and be safe. That he would be okay once he got home. And it seemed to have worked; when he finally looked up he was back at his apartment building. He walked toward the entrance, then paused.

He found himself turning his head slightly, looking at the apartment building across the street. His eyes danced upwards until they settled on a balcony – a balcony where a strand of yellow police tape was still wrapped around a bar on the safety gate.

_Don't look at it,_ he warned himself, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the balcony and enter the apartment building. But even as he stepped inside the building, he could still feel it – that unmistakable feeling of being watched.

As he approached the stairs, he paused again, looking over at the mailboxes. "I wonder if the mail's come yet," he thought aloud, turning and walking to the rows of mailboxes.

He stopped in front of his and Ben's mailbox, pulling another key out from his pocket and unlocking the door. His eyes settled on a small, neat pile of envelopes. He reached in and pulled the mail out, closing and locking the door.

As he walked up the stairs to his floor, Michael looked over what had come in the mail. _Bill, letter from Hunter's school – looks like another one of those banquets; I don't think we'll go. Not after the last one. What a waste of money. Another bill. And something for me._

He looked at the letter that had been at the very bottom of the pile. A baby blue envelope with his name written on it in flawless cursive. There was no return address, he noticed, and he instantly felt uncomfortable.

He reached the door to his apartment and unlocked it without taking his eyes off of the blue envelope. He pushed the door open, walked inside, and then closed it using his shoulder.

Michael dropped the two bills and the letter from Hunter's school onto the dinner table. His fingers were nervously clutching the letter, causing it to crease. _I'm overreacting again,_ he told himself. _I've gotta' calm down. It's probably just some invitation to…something. Nothing to get worked up about._

Nonetheless, he could not stop his hands from shaking as he began opening the letter. He tore through the top half of the envelope, dropping the excess pieces onto the dinner table, next to the other pieces of mail.

Inside the envelope was a white card – a greeting card, it looked like. He removed the card and imprinted on the front were the words, _Happy Birthday!_

He stared in confusion at the words. His birthday was months away; who would be mailing him a birthday card already? Unless it was a late birthday card from the previous year.

_But that doesn't make any sense,_ he thought. _I got something from everyone I know. I mean…I think I did. Maybe it's one of my friends trying to make me feel better._

Smiling slightly, he nodded. "Yeah, that's probably what it is," he said to himself. He opened the card; on the inside were the printed words, _Best Wishes!_ And underneath the printed words were three words scribbled out in pen, all in capital lettering.

_I'M STILL WATCHING_.

Michael's throat tightened and he dropped the card onto the table. "I'm going crazy," he said to himself. "I'm going fucking crazy. I'm hallucinating a fucking greeting card. This is such bullshit – there's no way this is happening."

He reached down and picked up the card again. With shaking hands he flipped it open. The words gleamed up at him menacingly, like headlights in the dark. _I'M STILL WATCHING._

"Like hell you are!" Michael shouted, ripping the card in half…and then into fourths. He did not stop until the card was nothing more than small pieces of confetti. He gathered the pieces up in his hand and tossed them into the trashcan.

"You're fucking _dead_, Glenn!" he shouted. "You're dead and you're too busy _burning in Hell _to be watching me!"

His eyes trailed down to the table and fixed themselves upon the envelope. He reached down and grabbed it off of the table, crumpling it into a tight ball. "You're dead," he hissed through his teeth as he tossed the envelope into the trashcan along with the letter. "You're dead, so you _can't_ be watching me."

He sat down at the table, staring down at the other pieces of mail that were settled just in front of him. He crossed his arms in front of him and laid them on the table. He buried his face in his arms, not having the tears nor the energy to cry.

He lay there for a few minutes more until tears finally did spring into his eyes. The soaked the sleeves of his shirt and burned his eyes and he could still see the words flashing throughout his mind.

Finally, taking a deep breath, he began to sob. He was as far away from Glenn as he could possibly be…and yet Glenn was still able to terrorize him. He was still able to make Michael fear for his life even when Glenn's life had already ended.

He knew that there was no way to make the fear stop. When Glenn was able to terrify him even while dead, how would there be any way to make it all stop? And he cried, because he knew.

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
